


How Not To Meet Your Future Boyfriend

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Charles Being Concerned, Charles is a little loose with his telepathy, Charles's concern backfires, Drunkenness, Erik being dramatic, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Erik overreacts, Kink Meme, M/M, Modern AU, Protective Erik, strange drunk characterizations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik punches Charles in the face the first time they meet. There isn't anywhere their relationship can go from there but up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Not To Meet Your Future Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Synekdokee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/gifts).



> This is for my favorite turtle, [synekdokee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee) for this [prompt](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=10798373#t10798373). Hope you like it :) (It's a little rough and I apologize.)

The thing about being drunk is that it doesn’t make Erik dizzy or unsteady on his feet. It breaks down his hard-learned self-control and makes him want to murder anyone who so much as looks at him wrong. So it’s not a surprise when he almost guts the three humans at the bar who jeer at him once they spot his mutant ID. The only thing that stops him from breaking their faces is Janos and Azazel dragging him away and shoving him toward the exit, ordering him to take a breather. He doesn’t want to go, but he does, shoving through the crowd and focusing on nothing but putting one foot in front of the other until he’s free of the crush of people.

He bursts out through the back door into the alley and then stops there in the darkness for a long moment, fighting to quell the thrumming rage in his chest. The night air is cold and stings his lungs as he breathes in, dimming some of the pent-up energy that courses through his entire body. After a couple of minutes, he yanks a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his leather jacket and shakes one out. Swallowing twice to try to rid his throat of the taste of bad beer, he jams the cigarette between his lips and then searches for his lighter. It takes him a moment to locate its metal signature in the inner pocket of his jacket, and he summons it out with a flick of his fingers and lights up. The first inhalation of smoke steadies him a little. The second dims the anger, calms his thoughts.

The door behind him opens with a loud creak, and he jerks his head over to look. He’s pissed out of his mind, his head hurts, and his control is a little shot with all the alcohol in his system. If one of those fuckers from the bar has followed him out, he’ll probably kill him, and good fucking riddance, too. He can’t deny that he’s spoiling for a fight now, keen on letting the hot rage inside him loose. But the man who steps out into the alley is not one of the three mutantphobes who were harassing him at the bar; it’s a short, lean young man with a soft, friendly face and dark blue eyes that are wide with concern.

Concern. Erik really, really hopes it isn’t for him.

“Hey,” the man says, and Erik’s surprised to hear the British accent there, posh and strange in the middle of New York. “You all right?” 

Fucking hell. Erik closes his eyes and says through his teeth, “Not interested.”

“What?”

“I’m fine,” he bites out. “Piss off.”

The man rocks back on his heels for a moment, clearly startled at his hostility. Good, Erik thinks spitefully. Maybe then he’ll take his misplaced sympathy or whatever the hell he wants and leave Erik alone. But instead of retreating, the man steps closer and offers, “I’m Charles.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Erik snaps. “Go away.”

“I saw what happened in there,” Charles persists. “I heard what they said to you. You sure you’re all right?”

Erik breathes in deep and resists the urge to blow the smoke out into Charles’s face. Instead, he takes a few seconds to study him, his drink-blurry vision taking a long moment to focus. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, pale clean-shaven cheeks, wet red lips. He’s wearing slacks and a nice button-down with a cardigan, too. He looks like a fucking kid. What the hell is he doing at a bar on a Tuesday night?

“Excuse me,” Charles says. “I’m not a kid.”

“Yes, you are,” Erik says, sneering at Charles’s pout. Kid probably got carded at the bar. Probably couldn’t get anything better than a soda water.

Charles huffs. “Soda water. I haven’t had one since I was eighteen. Maybe before.”

They’re standing close enough for Erik to smell the alcohol on his breath. For a second, Erik thinks it’s his own breath he’s smelling, but no—Charles’s breath smells of tequila and all Erik’s touched all night is beer. How old is this kid?

“Twenty-five,” Charles answers with a sniff. “And you’re only twenty-eight, don’t go acting all high and mighty on me now.”

Erik realizes very suddenly that he hadn’t asked that out loud. _“Fuck.”_

“Mm, yes,” Charles hums, leaning in closer. “Fuck, indeed. Has anyone ever told you that you have very pretty eyes?”

Erik stumbles back away from him, sharp, wary anger roaring up in him. “You’re a telepath, aren’t you? You’re a fucking telepath.”

“And you have a very groovy mutation,” Charles replies with a sloppy grin, pursuing him as he retreats down the alley. With each step he takes, Erik backpedals guardedly. He tries to remember how to shield against mind readers, but alcohol makes his thoughts fuzzy, makes it difficult to concentrate.

After a few moments of the chase, Charles stops in place and frowns petulantly. “I just want to talk.”

“Well, I don’t,” Erik spits, yanking the cigarette from his mouth with a grip so tight he nearly crushes it between his fingers.

“Come now, I know you’re upset about those guys at the bar,” Charles says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Let me tell you, they did _not_ have very nice thoughts. But to be fair, you didn’t either.”

“You always go around reading everyone’s minds without permission?” Erik snaps. “You know that’s illegal.”

“Almost no telepath gets fined for it,” Charles says dismissively, attempting to roll his eyes. Evidently that level of muscle coordination is beyond him in his current state; he ends up crossing his eyes and then giggling. God, he’s drunk. Probably as drunk as Erik, though he hides it well.

“You know how hard it is to prove mental crimes have even occurred, let alone that someone perpetrated it,” Charles says, shrugging. He sounds astoundingly coherent for someone who’s intoxicated.

 _Why, thank you,_ echoes an answering voice in Erik’s head. _That’s kind of you. I’ve had practice. You should hear me when I’m really smashed._

“Get the _fuck_ out of my head,” Erik snarls, clenching his hands into fists as he reaches automatically for all the metal in reach. The nearby Dumpster screeches toward them a couple of feet, and the bars of the fire escape above their heads rattle. One wrong move and Charles will be nothing more than a flattened stain on the concrete.

The telepath throws up a placating hand. “Sorry, sorry. I get a bit, ah… _loose_ with my telepathy after a few drinks. And to answer your previous question, no, I don’t normally go around reading people’s minds without permission. But alcohol doesn’t help with my shielding, and in my defense, you chaps were thinking very loudly.” He peers closely at Erik. “You sure you’re all right? The things they said weren’t very kind.”

Erik barks a laugh. _‘Weren’t very kind?’_ They’d called him a freak, a mistake, and half a dozen other mutant slurs. He’d heard it all before, but tonight, he’d gotten some alcohol in him and their words had rankled him like insults usually never do. He’s used to being unruffled, used to ignoring taunts and jeers. After all, he’s had to deal with them ever since he was a child. But tonight, he isn’t in the mood to tolerate this sort of shit. He’d gone to the bar to fetch drinks for their table, nothing more. He hadn’t been looking for trouble. But when the guys at the bar had caught sight of his mutant identification card as he’d been paying for the beer, they’d sneered at him and called him a mutie freak. When he’d ignored them, they’d shouted that his mother was a mutie whore, and Erik had simply…snapped. If Janos and Azazel hadn’t hauled him back by his arms, ordering him to calm down, he would have driven the nearest dull spoon through the ringleader’s throat. Even now, he wonders how the hell he’d managed to walk away. He has never been able to control his rage that well, and the level of self-restraint it had taken to leave those humans unharmed at the bar…he hadn’t thought he possessed it.

“I’m glad you walked away,” Charles says into the silence.

“I didn’t want to.”

“I know. And you wouldn’t have.” Charles gets a sheepish look in his eyes. “I might have nudged you a bit.”

“You nudged—” Erik feels that hot rage beginning to ascend again, tinged this time with a tiny tendril of fear. “You changed my mind?”

“I stopped you from doing something you’d regret.”

“I wouldn’t have regretted tearing their throats out,” Erik snaps. “The world would be better off without mutantphobic fuckers like them.”

“That may be true,” Charles agrees mildly, “but killing them would hardly bring you any peace of mind.” He steps closer, then gets a silly little pleased smile on his face when Erik doesn’t step back. “They were drunk, too, you know. Not quite in their right minds.”

Erik glowers at him. “Are you defending them?”

Charles’s eyes widen. “No, hardly. I was merely explaining—”

“Explaining _what?”_ Erik growls. “That they had an excuse to say those things? That it would be _okay_ if they were drunk?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Charles says, exasperation clear in his tone. “I meant that they weren’t in complete control of themselves. They couldn’t be blamed—no, that’s not right. They’re responsible for what they said. I just want to say that…that they aren’t normally—oh, bugger.” He lets out a frustrated breath. “I don’t express myself very well after I’ve knocked back a few.”

Erik snorts and turns his back. The cigarette in his hand is crumpled, so he drops it to the ground and crushes it under his boot before pulling out another one. As the lighter floats itself out of his pocket and flicks itself open, he feels a shiver of delight that isn’t his own and Charles says behind him, wonder in his voice, “That’s very cool.”

“Go away,” Erik says acidly as he inhales smoky warmth.

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine.”

“Just—”

“How many times do I have to say I’m _fine?”_ Erik hisses, whirling around to face him again. “We don’t know each other. Get the fuck out of my face.”

Charles recoils, a wounded look in his eyes. Then he visibly gathers himself, straightens his shoulders, and closes the distance between them again. “I know what it feels like to be hated, Erik,” he offers. “I know what it’s like to want to hate people for what they say and what they think. But not every human is bad, you know.”

Erik grits his teeth. “I never said that.” 

“No, but you thought it.” Almost before Erik even processes that, Charles winces and says, “Sorry. My telepathy, iffy boundaries when drunk—I’ve told you this. Sorry. But it doesn’t change what you think of humans.”

“They’re all the same,” Erik growls. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen their kind.”

“Their kind?” Charles echoes. Then he laughs, long and hard and a bit wildly. “Oh, lord,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “Don’t tell me you believe we’re entirely separate from humans. Public misconception on evolution never fails to astound me. We didn’t come from humans, if you don’t realize. We _are_ humans.”

“We aren’t—”

 _Aren’t the same?_ The voice in his head is rapid, speaking almost too quickly to be understood. The words run together, but the amused sentiment behind them is strong. _Of course not. No human is genetically identical to another, except for twins of course. And mutations are common. Blue eyes are a mutation, just as my telepathy is, just as your abilities are. Why aren’t we welcoming every blue-eyed person into our mutant ranks? Hmm? Mutant supremacist groups have never answered that question to my satisfaction._

Erik shoves Charles so hard he stumbles back into the Dumpster, colliding with a shuddering thud of metal. “Get the _fuck_ out of my head and stay out!”

Charles stares at him, eyes wide. “Sorry.” He presses the palm of his hand against his temple as if to steady himself. “I slip. When I’m drunk. I’ve already told you this, haven’t I?”

“You have.” Erik fights the urge to grab the metal of Charles’s belt and his watch and hurl him bodily away. Instead, he just jerks his head at the door behind them. “Leave me alone.”

“But you’re not alone, my friend,” Charles says earnestly, his eyes suddenly bright. “You’re not alone.”

He reaches out and puts a hand on Erik’s shoulder, and that’s it. Erik has dealt with mutantphobic shit before, and the worst, _worst_ part of it is always what comes after: those people who try to console him, who try to reach out, as if they think he’s actually _affected_ by the slurs hurled his way, as if he needs their fucking _pity_. And now here’s Charles, calling him _friend_ , acting as if he’s expecting Erik to break down and have a cry on his shoulder any moment now. Here’s this fucking telepath won’t _leave him alone,_ and without thinking, Erik turns, balls his hand into a fist, and lashes out.

It’s an awkward strike, made clumsy by alcohol and shaky rage. Still, it’s enough to judder hard up Erik’s arm, enough to send Charles sprawling to the ground with a startled cry. Erik stumbles forward a bit at the impact, thrown off-balance by his own momentum. When he manages to right himself again, his vision spinning from moving too quickly, he notices the bursts of pain along his jaw and cheek. Reflexively, he reaches up to find out where he’s been hit, but when he probes at the skin, there’s—nothing.

The pain shuts off with a snap. Abruptly dizzy, he leans against the Dumpster and glances down, panting shallowly.

Charles is lying on the ground, half sitting up, one hand pressed against the side of his face, his eyes almost comically wide. His mouth is hanging open in astonishment, and there’s blood on his face, running from a cut across his cheek. His eyes are still bright as they stare up at Erik, but now, they’re bright with tears of pain. Erik stares back down at him for a long, stunned moment, stares into those wet blue eyes and wonders what the hell just happened.

His knuckles throb once, then twice in time with his pulse. Then everything slams sharply into focus, and the anger leaches out of him in a rush. Shock chases away the fringes of intoxication and leaves him oddly and horribly clear-minded. He just hit Charles. He just hit a complete stranger who had been doing nothing more than trying to help, and _oh God,_ what the fuck is wrong with him?

“Are you okay?” he breathes, dropping gracelessly to one knee beside Charles.

The telepath flinches away from him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Erik insists, his eyes wide. “You’re bleeding. Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“I’m _fine,”_ Charles repeats, holding his sleeve up against his cheek. For a moment, Erik simply watches as blood seeps into the clean blue fabric. Then he scrambles through his pockets and comes up with a crumpled napkin, which he offers over hurriedly. Charles takes it after a beat of hesitation and presses it against the cut. Red soaks through in patches, and Erik can’t help but stare at it in horror. He did this. He let alcohol ruin his inhibitions, he nearly killed a trio of stupid mutantphobes at the bar, and now he’s struck a random stranger who had been trying to help, and _fuck_ —Charles’s expression is helplessly confused, a wounded look in his eyes as he dabs at his cheek and does his utmost to resemble a kicked puppy.

“Come on,” Erik says, standing before he even makes a decision to move. “Let’s go.”

He reaches down to pull Charles up by his arm, ignoring it when Charles protests. “Unhand me,” Charles orders, dragging his heels as Erik yanks him toward the mouth of the alley. “Un _hand_ me. Where are you going?”

“To get you a cab,” Erik retorts without slowing. “That cut needs looking at.” He glances back at it and winces, shame and guilt coursing through him. “Stitches, probably.”

“Honestly,” Charles huffs, beginning to sound a bit cross, “I can get my own cab.”

“You’re drunk,” Erik points out.

“Not anymore.” At Erik’s skeptical glance, Charles points to his head. “Benefits of telepathy. I don’t get hangovers when I don’t want to, and I get sober very quickly when I put my mind to it.” Already, his voice sounds steadier, less whimsical. “And right now,” Charles continues, prying Erik’s grip off his arm, “I am sober enough to politely tell you to, using your words, _‘piss off.’”_

Erik pauses. Then, because it seems important, he mentions, _“I’m_ drunk.”

Charles sighs. “Yes, I’m well aware of that, thank you.” He steps to the edge of the street and holds up his hand. Not even a minute later, an empty cab pulls up to the curb. Without so much as a wave goodbye, Charles climbs into the backseat. Well, Erik decides determinedly, it’s his duty to fix what he’s hurt. So he grabs the cab door before Charles can pull it shut, slides into the back, and then says to the cabbie, “Nearest hospital please.”

 _“Excuse_ me,” Charles says, sounding miffed.

“You ought to use your seatbelt,” Erik says distractedly. He flicks his fingers, and the belt pulls itself down across Charles’s chest. Impaired as he is by the five or six or seven beers he’s had, it takes him four tries to get the belt to buckle properly. When it finally clicks into place, he lets out a pleased exclamation and scoots closer to Charles, prepared to offer extra protection in the event of an accident. But Charles gives him a wary look and inches away.

“I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” Erik says, frowning in concern.

“You _punched_ me.”

“Unintentionally!”

“You _unintentionally_ punched me?”

“Okay,” Erik concedes guiltily, “I might have meant to hurt you. But not on purpose.”

“You’re drunker than you think you are,” Charles mutters. He leans forward in his seat to speak to the driver. “Excuse me, sir? The hospital won’t be necessary, I’m perfectly fine.”

The cabbie frowns. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m—”

“No, he’s not,” Erik interrupts. He sticks the brake pedal in place when the cabbie tries to slow down. It’s only after Charles shoots him a sharp warning look that he realizes, oh, it might not be a good idea if the cabbie panics, and he lets the brake go. Still, he puts his hand on the side of the cab, intent on keeping it speeding along if the cabbie slows down too much. “Hospital. He needs stitches.”

“I don’t need _stitches—”_

“You’re bleeding!” Erik growls. He reaches over, takes Charles’s chin into his hand, and tilts his face so he can see the cut. It’s still seeping blood. “Don’t tell me that doesn’t need stitches.”

“Get your hands off me,” Charles says, clearly aggravated as he slaps Erik’s hand away. “I think you’ve done enough touching for tonight.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Erik says contritely. 

“Yes, well,” Charles grumbles, shifting to face the window. Erik wants to pull him back around so he can take a look at the damage again, but Charles says shortly, _Really, don’t bother,_ and Erik recoils. Part of him wants to snap at the telepath yet again for taking liberties with his mind. Instead, he clamps down on the automatic annoyance and lets Charles have his space, opting to spend the rest of the ride harassing the cabbie into driving faster.

“Pull around to the emergency entrance,” Erik orders when they near.

Charles makes an exasperated noise. “No, don’t do that. That’s for ambulances.”

“This is an _emergency,”_ Erik insists, glaring at the cabbie in the rearview mirror.

Charles directs an irritated look at him. “For God’s sake, I’m bleeding from a little cut on my cheek, not from an artery.” To the cabbie, he says, “Much obliged if you’d just drop us off at the front entrance please.”

The cab turns into the circular drive at the front and comes to a stop behind a parked ambulance. Erik leaps out as soon as they stop moving and stares hard at the ambulance, looking for paramedics. There aren’t any in sight. Laggards. Aren’t they supposed to be manning the ambulance? Where the fuck are they?

“Are you always this dramatic?” Charles sighs as he slips out of the cab behind him. He leans through the passenger window to pay the cabbie—belatedly, Erik realizes he should have picked up the fare, except the cab’s already pulling away—and then turns to face Erik.

“Dramatic?” Erik repeats. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Come on.”

He grabs Charles’s arm and propels him through the front doors. They enter in a blast of cold air, and Erik hauls Charles straight up to the nearest nurse.

“Fix him,” he says.

The nurse looks up from her clipboard and gives him a quick once-over. Clearly she isn’t impressed by his t-shirt, leather jacket, and jeans getup. Erik wishes he’d thought to dress a little nicer when Janos had showed up at his door and dragged him out for the night.

 _She’s less disapproving of your clothes and more of the way you’re drooling,_ Charles comments dryly.

“I’m not—” He wipes his sleeve across his mouth. His tongue catches a bit on the cotton, and he fights the urge to spit out the taste of fabric. Probably not civilized.

 _You were, a little._ Charles sounds the tiniest bit amused. He turns his attention to the nurse and says, “Can I get some help for my cheek here?”

Her frown lightens immediately as she glances at him. Of course it does. Erik’s known Charles for a grand total of half an hour and already he’s sure that no one ever looks at Charles without being even a little bit drawn to his… _allure._ Erik doesn’t know what the fuck it is about him, but there’s just _something,_ and maybe if he were sober, he’d be able to pinpoint it. Maybe. As it is, all he can think is that Charles is very hard to scowl at, and the nurse knows it, too. She even purses her lips in concern as she steps toward him and gestures for him to move his hand away from his cheek. When he does, she winces sympathetically and asks, “What happened?”

“I got hit,” Charles replies succinctly. Erik’s surprised when Charles doesn’t even send an accusing look in his direction.

“He needs stitches,” Erik puts in.

“I don’t need _stitches.”_

“Actually, your friend might be right,” the nurse says, stepping closer. She touches the reddened skin of Charles’s cheek to examine it, and when she presses her fingers in to probe at the cut, Charles hisses out a pained breath through his teeth.

Erik bristles immediately. “Get your hands off him,” he snaps, interposing himself between Charles and the nurse. “If all you’re going to do is hurt him, then fuck off.”

The nurse draws herself up and glowers at him. _“Excuse me?”_

Charles’s hand latches onto Erik’s arm. “Please do excuse my…” He hesitates. “…friend here. He’s had a little to drink. Could you direct us to the nearest doctor or waiting room or what have you?” 

The nurse points down the hall. Charles tugs at Erik’s arm to get him to follow, and Erik does, a bit dazedly.

“You called me your friend,” he says. He’s fairly certain the alcohol hasn’t impaired his hearing. He remembers Charles calling him friend before in the alley, but it feels different now, maybe because he’s no longer furious. 

Charles huffs, quickening his stride so he keeps a step ahead of Erik. “Well, what was I supposed to call you? My assailant? I’d rather not deal with the hassle _that_ would cause.”

He makes a good point. The inside of a jail cell doesn’t seem particularly appealing right now. Or ever.

“Don’t be absurd,” Charles says. “It’d be a hassle, but you wouldn’t go to jail over it. I’m not pressing charges.”

“But you could,” Erik says, eyeing Charles’s swollen cheek. He did that. He can’t believe he did that.

Charles ignores his stare. “No, never. A crime or misdemeanor involving mutants takes nearly twice as long to process as one involving a human. Can you imagine the paperwork? It’s a nightmare.”

Erik blinks slowly at him. “How do you know that?”

“Didn’t I mention?” Charles asks as he leads the way into the waiting room. The place is packed already, and there’s a line of people standing because they’ve run out of chairs. “I’m with the NYPD.”

Erik’s brain takes a full half minute to process that. When it does, he freezes in his tracks.

A police officer. He’s hit a police officer. _Shit_. He’s going to jail for this. He’s going to be locked away for so long his mother’s going to forget his face, and even if she visits every day, she’ll still get a terrible, disappointed look in her eyes, knowing that she’s lived to see her boy fuck up and end up behind bars for the rest of his life and—

Charles stops, too. “Don’t be dramatic. For one thing, it would hardly be the rest of your life. It’d be one to ten years—”

 _Fuck._ One to ten _years._

 _“—and,”_ Charles continues, raising his voice, “I’m not even pressing charges. It’s not that serious. I’ve had worse paper cuts.”

Erik gives him a flat look. Charles’s eye is beginning to darken. It’s probably going to be black by tomorrow, and his cheek is going to swell the hell up, even worse than it looks now. Erik remembers how hard he’d hit him, how Charles had gone sprawling back on the ground, laid out by Erik’s blow. His knuckles sting at the memory.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because that’s all he can think of at the moment. That and, _I’m not always an asshole, I promise,_ and _fucking hell, knew I shouldn’t have let Azazel and Janos fucking drag me out tonight._

“Yes, I’m sure you’re very nice when you’re not drunk,” Charles remarks, picking his way across the room to join the end of the line.

Erik follows him, unable to fight back a scowl. “You keep doing that.”

“That?”

“Reading my mind. Reaching in and—and _taking_ things.”

Charles bites his lip. Erik finds that it’s insanely distracting. “I’m sorry. I know people get—touchy about it, and I _will_ respect your boundaries. It just takes an effort.”

“Well, make it,” Erik says, trying not to sound too snappish. He doesn’t like the idea of anyone riffling through his head. It reminds him too much of Emma Frost, of Shaw.

He cuts those thoughts off before they can fully form, shoving down the anger to somewhere dark and manageable. To distract himself, he steps around to look at Charles’s cheek again. Charles gives him an exasperated glance but holds still under his ministrations. He ghosts his fingers over the hot, puffy flesh and can’t fight back the surge of guilt when Charles grimaces at his touch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I’m not that kind of guy. I just want you to know that.”

Charles eyes him, keeping perfectly still as Erik examines him. After a while, he sighs and says, “I know.”

Erik avoids his gaze. “You know?”

“Telepath, remember?” he says, tapping his forehead. “I’m relatively good at knowing when a man is sincere and when he’s not.” He hesitates, then adds, “No harm done, really. I’ve had worse, believe me. I’ll just— _ow!”_

Erik yanks his fingers back. “Sorry!” His contrition flips into anger in an instant. “Where the hell’s a doctor?” he snaps peevishly, glaring at everyone around them. The people in front of them in line shoot him strange looks, and he glowers back until they turn away in discomfort. Then he turns his scowl on the nearest nurse. “We need a doctor already!”

The nurse frowns. “You’re going to have to wait in line with everyone else, sir. I promise you, someone will be with you momentarily—”

 _“Momentarily?”_ Erik echoes, outraged. Charles is bleeding, and they’re going to get him a doctor _momentarily?_ “What kind of shoddy establishment is this?” he demands, clenching his fists. The clipboards on the counter rattle and something in the walls creaks in response to the boiling rage that’s beginning to surface. He has half a mind to tear down the wall until he finds a doctor to care for Charles, because for _fuck’s_ sake, the man’s _bleeding,_ and Erik’s going to get him his goddamned medical assistance if he has to crumple this building down around their ears.

The line has split around them, the people shrinking away from Erik with wide eyes. Good, he thinks, glaring menacingly at them. At least they’re staying away from Charles. If any one of them so much as makes a move toward—

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he hears Charles harrumph from behind him. A moment later, a firm hand clamps down around his wrist and pulls him back a step. “Calm your mind. You’re scaring everyone, and you’re going to get us kicked out.”

“You need a doctor,” Erik protests stubbornly.

“And I’m not going to get one if we’re _kicked out,”_ Charles reasons, staring hard into Erik’s eyes. He doesn’t flinch at all at Erik’s glare. That’s admirable. Erik likes that. He opens his mouth to say so, and at that exact moment, the doors to the waiting room bang open and three security officers rush in.

“Oh, dear,” Charles says.

The three men catch sight of Erik immediately and march over. The front one is carrying a tranquilizer gun, Erik notes, one of those easily-handled, modified mini-guns that have enough sedative in one cartridge to put a man down for twelve hours straight. It’s the go-to weapon against minor mutant threats, and Erik’s lip curls up in a snarl just to see it. If they think they’re going to take him down with a tranq gun like that, they’re going to learn differently. He lifts his hand to warn them back, preparing to warp the barrels of their weapons if they so much as take another step. Lucky for them, they stop out of reach, eyeing Erik warily.

“What’s going on here?” the front one—the leader, Erik assumes—demands gruffly. “We don’t tolerate mutant disturbances in this hospital. If you’re making a scene, we will escort you out.”

“You can try,” Erik growls, “but we’re not going anywhere until he gets treated, and if you even try to touch him I’m going to—”

“Excuse me, officers,” Charles interjects smoothly. He steps in front of Erik, who tries to push him back. He’s safer behind Erik, where Erik can better protect him.

_Protect me? From hospital security guards? I know you’re drunk, but do try to be rational._

Erik scowls. He’s torn between protecting Charles and turning to snap at him for getting into his head _again._ Even trying to think through the options is a chore at the moment. He’s too sloshed for this shit. So he just…doesn’t do anything as Charles speaks to the officers, explaining something low under his breath that Erik isn’t in the mood to try to listen in on. The other people in line are still staring and whispering amongst themselves, so Erik does his best to look threatening. Maybe if he frightens them enough, they’ll all leave, and Charles will finally be able to get in with the next doctor. Yes, that’s an excellent thought. He reaches out to maybe rattle them a bit, tug on their watches and zippers and such, but Charles grabs his arm and says loudly, “I’ll keep him in check, officers. But thank you for the concern.”

“If he’s dangerous—”

“Not dangerous in the slightest,” Charles assures them. They seem unconvinced until Charles flashes them a bright smile, and then they retreat. They only go so far as the doorway though, apparently ready to leap into action at any sign of trouble. Erik sneers at them until Charles mutters, “Do you _want_ to be arrested tonight? Come on, let’s get back in line. Stop glaring at everyone, please, you’re making people uncomfortable.”

“Good,” Erik growls, stepping back into line behind a paper-thin woman who is obviously trying desperately not to make eye contact. “How much longer is this going to take? We’ve been standing here forever.”

“We’ve been standing here for ten minutes,” Charles corrects. “You know, you don’t have to stay.”

Erik turns his glare on him. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh, so you hit me, then you insult me. Excellent.”

“No, that’s not—” Erik pauses, flustered. “Sorry. Of course I’m staying. I’m not a—a—”

“A hit-and-run type of guy?” Charles finishes wryly. “Good to know.”

Erik glances at Charles’s face. The cut has stopped bleeding, at least, though Charles’s eye has blackened even further. It’s a shame, he thinks suddenly. Charles is…shockingly attractive. Erik isn’t quite sure how he missed it, but the fact hits him out of nowhere, like a sledgehammer to the gut. Charles has got an open, friendly face, blue eyes that look as if they’re always smiling, and red lips that seem as if someone has just kissed them into color. He said he was, what—twenty-five? He doesn’t even look eighteen. Erik’s not into kids in the slightest, and yet at that moment, all he wants to do is push Charles up against the nearest wall and see what his lips taste like. The only thing holding him back is that nasty bruise and cut, marring the left half of his face. The cut’s deep. Erik has the sudden, gut-wrenching fear that it’ll scar.

As if in answer to that thought, the door at the far end of the room opens, and a nurse calls out, “Next!”

Erik seizes Charles’s arm at once and drags him past everyone else to the front of the line. Several people protest angrily, but a fiery glare from Erik is all it takes for them to decide it’s not worth it to try to argue. Pulling at his arm, Charles says, “Stop, we can’t just cut!” Erik emphatically ignores him and hauls him through the doors at the end of the room, down the hallway, and into the designated examination room. He fusses until Charles grumblingly climbs onto the examination table. His legs dangle over the edge, heels kicking slightly, and he looks so delectable that Erik actually steps forward to push him down onto the table and ravish him on the spot. But at that instant, the doctor arrives, and Erik’s attention snaps over to him.

“Well, what’s the problem here?” the doctor asks gruffly, without preamble. He’s scruffy and sporting a bizarre haircut that makes him look more animal than man. He resembles a lumberjack more than a medical professional. He’s even wearing muddy _combat boots_ , to Erik’s everlasting horror. This is a hobo who’s snuck into the hospital and is masquerading around as a doctor, he just knows it. He’s got to get Charles out of here before this fraud gets his hands anywhere near him.

“Oh, hush,” Charles says, a bit irritably. Both Erik and the imposter stop to look at him. “Hush to you,” Charles says, pointing at Erik. “He’s not a fraud.”

Erik starts. “You _said—”_

“I _am_ staying clear of your head, but when you’re shouting your thoughts at me, there’s really only so much I can do. And you’re being paranoid.” He turns to face the doctor. “You aren’t a fraud, are you, Dr.…?”

“Logan,” the lumberjack says, eyeing both of them. “Just call me Logan.” He shifts his gaze to Charles. “You a telepath then?”

“You got a problem with that?” Erik asks belligerently, wholly prepared to sit this mutantphobic fucker on his ass and—

“Oh, are you _always_ this combative?” Charles demands, crossing his arms. “Even when you’re sober?”

Erik blinks at him. “Combative? I’m _protecting—”_

“He a mutant, too?” Logan interrupts, crossing his arms and leveling a disapproving look in Erik’s direction. _Disapproving._ Erik bristles.

Charles sets a warm, firm hand on his shoulder. “Yes, he is. He’s also knocked back a few too many. Erik, do us a favor and stop rattling the room.”

 _Erik._ He can’t remember telling Charles his name. In fact, he distinctly remembers withholding it in the hopes that Charles would leave him the fuck alone. But then he remembers that Charles is a telepath, and of _course_ he knows Erik’s name. Figuring that out probably took him about as much effort as lifting his finger.

Then the rest of the Charles’s words register. Stop—what? It takes him a moment to realize that he’s shaking the cabinets by their metal frames. The syringes in the box on the counter have floated from their container, the stethoscope around Logan’s neck is twisting violently, and Logan—Jesus, how did Erik miss this? The man’s _filled_ with metal, coated with it. It’s in his skeleton—no, it _is_ his skeleton, and Erik reaches out incredulously and pushes. Logan flies up against the wall, sticking there with a clang, and for a long handful of seconds, they all just stare at each other.

“What,” Logan says, “the fuck.”

Charles’s hand tightens around Erik’s shoulder. “Erik, put the doctor down.”

Logan struggles violently for a second before going limp. “Yes, Erik,” he growls, “put the doctor the fuck down.”

Erik drops him unceremoniously. Logan hits the floor so hard that Erik’s sure he’s left a couple of broken ribs, or at the very least, a bruise. But Logan bounds back to his feet in an instant, his eyes narrowed and wary. “I think you need to leave.”

Erik glares back at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“That wasn’t a request.” Logan points straight at Erik, and Erik feels the metal in him move. Claws split the skin between his knuckles, gleaming claws that look as long as Erik’s forearm and sharp enough to shear a man clean in half. “I’m a mutant, too, bub, and part of my job is to deal with troublemakers like you.”

“You think you can touch me?” Erik sneers. “I just pinned you against the wall, and I could do it again.”

Logan steps forward menacingly. “I’d like to see you try.”

Erik raises his hand, but before he can even reach for the metal in Logan’s body, Charles hops off the table and interposes himself between them. “Let’s all just calm down for a second, shall we?”

“Tell that to your boyfriend here,” Logan growls.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Charles says in exasperation. “He’s here for…” He glances at Erik. “…moral support. And he’s more than a little tipsy and not quite in control of himself. Erik, sit down, please.”

“No. Not until this clown—”

“Who’re you calling a _clown,_ you drunk asshole!”

“What—I’m _not…”_

“What, _drunk?”_

“No, an asshole!”

“That is quite enough,” Charles breaks in sharply, shoving his hands between them. “Erik, _sit down.”_

“But he—”

_“Sit.”_

Erik sits. He doesn’t stop glaring at Logan though, who glares right on back even as Charles tries to catch his attention. It is only when Charles stomps off toward the door that Erik breaks eye contact with the doctor and demands, “Where are you going?”

 _“Clearly,_ if I’m going to receive medical attention, this isn’t the place for it,” Charles says, almost petulantly.

“Come back here,” Logan says. Sheathing his claws, he spins around and seizes Charles by his collar. Charles makes a startled noise and staggers back into the doctor, who pushes him against the examination table and says, “Let me look at that eye. Come on, get up there.”

“You’re both bossy, the pair of you,” Charles mutters as he climbs back into the table. He tilts his cheek to present it to Logan, who scrutinizes it carefully, long fingers framing Charles’s face. His hands are big, Erik notes uneasily. Big enough to crush Charles’s skull in between them, and that coupled with his claws….But no, there’s no way that would happen because if Logan makes even one misstep, Erik will hurl him out the window to their left, hospital damages and any ensuing fines be damned.

“You’re going to need stitches for this,” Logan says, stepping away to pull a pair of gloves out of the nearest cabinet. “And you’re going to end up with a nasty black eye. How did this happen?”

Erik flushes. Charles carefully doesn’t look in his direction as he answers, “I fell.”

Logan snorts. “Let’s pretend you didn’t just assume I was dumb enough to believe that. Why’d he hit you?”

Both of them freeze. “I didn’t—” Erik protests, just as Charles says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The doctor crosses his arms and gives them a flat look. “I’m insulted. Exactly how stupid do you think I am? You’ve got a bruise on your face the shape of a fist. He’s got bruises on his knuckles probably the shape of your face. I can add two and two.”

Erik shoots a glance down to his hand and then tucks it behind his back to hide it. “I…”

“It was my fault, really,” Charles offers.

Logan swivels around to fix him with a sharp glare. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Let me tell you something, bub. No matter what you did, _nothing_ justifies him hitting you, and you think it’s all right this time, but next time, I swear to you—he’ll—what?”

He’s stopped because Charles is laughing now and shaking his head, his eyes gleaming and his grin too bright. Erik can’t stop staring at his lips. “This isn’t what you think, Doctor. Erik isn’t my boyfriend, and I’m not in an abusive relationship. I hardly even know him.”

Logan blinks. “What?”

Erik glares at him, affronted. “Is that what you thought—I would _never_ hit someone I loved—”

“But you’d hit strangers, apparently,” Logan says balefully, stepping back to Charles’s side. “Maybe I should call the police.”

“It’s fine,” Charles says before Erik can so much as open his mouth to argue. “He didn’t mean to. As I said before, he’s had too much to drink, and he’s not himself.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

Erik shoots Charles a grateful look and stands so he can drift closer. He’s…not quite sure why he’s still here—he’s brought Charles to the hospital after all, made sure he got in with a doctor—but he doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he leans against the edge of the examination table and tries to keep an eye both on Logan and on Charles. Logan digs out antiseptic and swabs from a drawer under the counter and sets to work cleaning the cut. As soon as he dabs the gauze against the swollen flesh, Charles gives this tiny whimper that spears straight through Erik’s heart, and Erik leaps over to shove Logan roughly away.

“What the _hell?”_ Logan shouts, his claws snapping out, tearing straight through his latex gloves.

“You’re _hurting_ him!” Erik growls, shouldering his way in between them. “Didn’t you _hear_ him?”

“What the _fuck._ I’m _cleaning his face._ It’s antiseptic on an open cut, of course it fucking stings!” 

“But he—” Erik scrabbles for his logic, but all he can hear in his head is Charles’s pained whimper again. “You’re _hurting_ him!”

“Erik,” Charles says loudly before Logan can try to gut anyone, “thank you for taking me to the hospital. Really, that was decent of you. But maybe it’s best that you leave now.”

Erik turns to gape at him. He can’t help feeling a little hurt. “You…want me to go?”

Charles blinks. “I mean, you’re free to go. You don’t have to feel obligated to stay. I’ll be fine.”

 _“Obligated—”_ Is _that_ why Charles thinks he’s here? Erik doesn’t have any concrete reasons of his own, but he knows he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be. “I’m staying to make sure you get proper care.” He directs a hostile glare at Logan. “If he hurts you…”

“Erik, for God’s sake, calm down,” Charles harrumphs. “And if you’re going to stay, sit down over there and don’t move.”

Erik frowns. He doesn’t trust Logan with Charles’s safety. The man looks violent. In fact, no one should be trusted with Charles’s safety but Erik, because Erik knows for a fact that he’s dependable. “But…”

Charles points silently at the chair until Erik reluctantly settles into it. He almost gets back up when Logan steps back toward Charles, but at both of their glares, he thinks better of it and settles tensely in the seat.

After Logan finishes cleaning the cut, he pulls out thread and a needle. Erik jerks at the sight of it. It looks dangerous and more harmful than any help. Too agitated to sit, he stands, which makes Logan snap around to glare at him. But Erik just holds up his hands and takes a few steps away so he can pace a tight circle by the cabinets as Logan threads the needle. Erik is fine with that. He knows how stitches work, and he knows this is regular. Normal. But then Logan brings the needle toward Charles’s face, and Erik can’t help the surge of panic that runs through him. That’s a _sharp thing_ poking in Charles’s direction. One slip and he could get seriously hurt, and Erik can’t stand it. He doesn’t even make a conscious effort to move, but the needle suddenly melts in Logan’s hand, dripping onto the table.

“The _fuck!”_ Logan screeches.

Charles snaps his gaze across the room. “Erik!”

“Is this _him?”_ Logan shouts. “That’s fucking it. Get the fuck out of this room before I stab you in the throat!”

Erik trembles with indignation. _No one_ speaks to him like that and lives to tell about it. “You can fucking try, you overgrown rodent!”

_“What did you fucking call me?”_

A sudden pressure descends across Erik’s mind, blunting the edge of his anger. “Will you two drama queens _shut the hell up?”_ Charles interjects, his voice thunderous. It takes Erik a moment to realize that this is because it echoes in his mind as well, each word like a hammer blow. Both he and Logan fall silent, and Erik feels the rest of his righteous fury slip away as he accidentally meets Charles’s eyes and then fails to look away. They’re really very blue, he notes, practically unnatural, and also very, very sexy when Charles frowns like he’s doing right now. Erik wants to kiss that frown off his lips.

Charles jerks. “Erik,” he says sharply, and now that’s curious—his cheeks are pinking, and Erik wants more than ever to bend him over the table and bite that flush crawling up his neck. _“Erik._ Please just—will you wait outside?”

Logan glowers. “I don’t want him outside, I want him _gone_. He’s a menace.”

“He’ll behave himself. Won’t you, Erik?”

There’s no way to refuse that piercing gaze. Erik is hardly aware of what the question is, but he nods anyway. Then Logan strides over to helpfully yank the door open, and Erik shakes his head vehemently. “No, I’m not leaving you. What if he—”

“If he tries anything, I swear I’ll scream at the top of my lungs, and you can swoop in and save me,” Charles assures him. “Now please sit outside and don’t move.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Logan adds with a scowl. “Scout’s honor.”

That’s not very reassuring, but he feels something nudge at the back of his mind, like the whisper of a suggestion, and he feels a little bit better about leaving Charles alone. He escorts himself out, making sure to glare hard at Logan as he does, and then sits in the closest chair he can find. He makes sure to never let his eyes wander from the closed door, just in case Charles needs his help. But twenty minutes pass by with no distress call, and just when Erik’s eyes are starting to feel strained, the door swings open, and out steps Charles, followed closely by the doctor.

Erik leaps to his feet and hurries over. “Are you okay? Let me see.” He takes Charles’s chin in hand and turns it so he can examine the stitches. There’s a neat row of them, all black across Charles’s cheekbone. They look dark and ugly against the pale skin of the rest of Charles’s face. Erik wants to drown in his shame.

“Lots of rest,” Logan says, “and call in if the dizziness or nausea gets too bad. Take Tylenol for headaches, anything with acetaminophen should be fine. No to Ibuprofen or Advil.”

“Will do,” Charles says, nodding dutifully.

“And put some ice on that bruise. It’ll help with the swelling.” Logan gives Erik a swift, scornful glance. “If he tries to bother you…”

“If anything, he feels worse about this than I do,” Charles says with a laugh. “Believe me, I know. And I can take care of myself, but thank you for your concern.”

“If you’re sure…” Logan says doubtfully.

“I am.”

They shake hands—which Erik bristles at, because Logan is _touching Charles_ with those hands that have claws in them, dangerous claws that would slice Charles’s fingers to ribbons if they snapped out on accident—and then Logan departs to care for the next person in the waiting room. Erik stares darkly at his back until Charles put his hand on Erik’s elbow to steer him toward the receptionist desk, and then Charles’s touch distracts him from all else. He doesn’t remember waiting as Charles runs through costs and insurance information. The next thing he knows, they’re standing next to each other on the sidewalk outside in the chilly night air.

“Well,” Charles says finally, “I can’t say it’s been fun. I’ll hail you a cab.”

Erik blinks. “Shouldn’t I…I should walk you home. Help you home.” He can’t just take a cab and leave Charles here. The least he could do is see Charles safely home.

Charles laughs. “I think I’d be helping you. You’re a little drunk, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Erik flushes. “I did. I wouldn’t have…” He shoves his hands into his pockets and finishes in a mutter. “I wouldn’t have hit you otherwise.”

“I know.” Charles offers him a small, wry smile, just the barest upturn of his lips. “You seem like a good guy when you’re not ragingly overreacting over everything.”

“I’m not like that,” Erik replies hurriedly. For some reason, it’s imperative that Charles know this. “I’m not this… _weird_ when I’m sober.”

“I should hope not.” But Charles sounds more amused than convinced.

“I’m not,” Erik insists. “You should… _we_ should get coffee sometime. So you’ll see. You know, that I’m not an asshole.” _Smooth, Erik, really,_ he thinks to himself. 

“Did you just ask me out on a date?” Charles asks, eyes wide.

He sounds shocked. Maybe he’s not gay. Erik backtracks with lightning speed. “No, of course not. I’d never—I was just trying to make it up to you with coffee and—” He runs out of words and stops, flustered. What the fuck is happening to him? He’s never flustered.

“Relax,” Charles says, stepping just a little closer so that their shoulders brush. He gives Erik a sideways glance and the beginnings of a real smile. “Telepath, remember? I know you’re not an asshole, not really. Strongly opinionated maybe and a little short-tempered, but that hardly constitutes asshole behavior.”

It takes Erik a moment to digest that. “Thank you?”

Charles grins a bit shyly. “I wouldn’t object to coffee though. If you really wanted it.”

Coffee. Erik’s heart leaps. “Are you serious?”

“I am if you are.”

“Even with the drunk guy who punched you in the face and probably gave you a concussion?” Erik clarifies incredulously.

“Not so much the drunk guy,” Charles admits. Before Erik can even be disappointed, he adds, “But I’ll have coffee with the guy who took me to the hospital and was so worried he tried to threaten my doctor because he thought I was going to get hurt. Give me your hand?”

Erik obeys, and Charles pulls a pen from his pocket—and he does seem like the type of person who keeps pens in his pocket, and how does Erik find that so endearing—and scribbles a line of digits across his palm. “There,” he says, signing his name underneath. _Charles._ “Call me tomorrow after you’ve taken an Advil or two. We’ll work out lunch or something, if you’re up to it.”

Erik stares dazedly down at the numbers on his hand. A date. Charles’s _number._ “Yeah. I will.”

“Good. Here, I’ll get you a taxi.”

He’s too busy staring at his hand to notice that Charles has stepped into the street to hail him a cab. It’s only once Charles takes his elbow to usher him into the backseat that he glances up and realizes that Charles isn’t climbing in after him.

“We should share,” he says, brow furrowing. “More convenient that way.”

Charles pauses, his hand on the door. “Oh! Well, I didn’t want to presume…And anyway, where do you live?”

“Gramercy.”

“Oh. I’m in Upper East. It’d be a little inconvenient to share.” Charles smiles apologetically. “I can find my way home. Just remember to give me a call tomorrow, will you?”

Erik nods. “Yeah, of course.” As if he would forget. 

“Good.” Charles hesitates, then leans in to give Erik a quick, tentative kiss on the cheek. His lips barely even graze skin, but Erik feels suddenly hot all over, as if sparks are sizzling from every nerve. “Thank you for taking me to the hospital. That was sweet of you.”

He makes to lean back out of the cab, but Erik grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him closer. Before he loses his nerve, he presses a chaste kiss to the uninjured side of Charles’s face, delighting in the blush that follows his lips. “I’m sorry,” he says, raising his thumb to gently stroke the line of stitches across Charles’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Charles smiles and turns his head so that his lips brush Erik’s palm. Warmth bursts past Erik’s mind and is gone as quickly as it came. “Call me.” Then he ducks out of the cab and shuts the door.

*****

In the morning, Erik wakes up with a pounding hangover and a mouth that tastes like sand. Dragging himself from bed, he fetches a glass of water from the tap in the bathroom, fumbles through the cabinet for medicine, and tosses back three Advil. Once the throbbing in his head has lessened somewhat, he glances down at his hand and notices the numbers there. _Charles_ , it says underneath, and he remembers in a flash what happened the night before. He nearly breaks his leg in his rush for his phone, and once he finds it, it takes him five tries to get the number right.

The line rings for an agonizing few seconds. Erik holds his breath for every one of them. Finally, he hears the already-familiar voice, the accent thicker with sleep: “Hello?”

“Hi.” He lets out a breath. “It’s Erik.”

“Oh. Oh! Erik! Hello!”

“Hi. Um.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I remember making an utter fool of myself last night.” Even the thought now makes him want to bury his head under his pillows and never come out again. Charles must think him insane. That he even agreed to coffee and gave Erik his number is a miracle. “I want to make it up to you. Would you like to have lunch at eleven?”

“Yes, I’d love to. Where?”

“Where did you say you lived again?”

“Upper East Side. And you’re in Gramercy. I know a lovely place that’s almost halfway between us.”

Erik grabs a towel and roots around for clean clothes. He hadn’t even bothered to change last night, just collapsed into bed and fell asleep. He needs a shower and a shave, and he only has—he glances at the clock—an hour to get ready. Shit. “That sounds great. Just text me the address, and I’ll be there.”

“Okay, will do.” There’s a short pause. Then Charles says, “And, Erik?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you called.”

Erik stops and can’t help but smile. He distinctly remembers punching Charles in the face hard enough to break the skin, and Charles is still glad he called. “I’m glad I did, too. I’ll be there soon.”

“Yeah, I’ll be waiting. Bye.”

He hangs up, leaps into the shower and scrubs off the grime of the previous night, shaves carefully, struggles through four outfits before finally deciding on a black turtleneck and slacks, and then combs his hair into submission. Twenty minutes later, he arrives at the designated café and sits down in a corner table, easily visible from the doorway. He orders a black coffee, thinks about ordering something for Charles as well, and then decides to wait. He doesn’t know what Charles likes, after all, and he feels like it would be presumptuous of him to order something at random.

Charles arrives in a flurry, his cheeks flushed from the cold air outside, his hair windswept. His face looks even worse than Erik remembered; it’s swollen now, bruised purple, and the line of stitches makes him look deathly. But when he spots Erik, a smile lights up his entire expression, and Erik’s breath actually catches.

“Hey,” he says as he slides into the seat across from Erik.

“Hey, yourself,” Erik replies. He points at the laminated menu by Charles’s elbow. “I didn’t want to order you something you didn’t like, so I waited. But get anything you want, it’s on me.”

“Thank you.” Charles scrutinizes the menu and eventually decides on a deli turkey sandwich and tea. Then he glances up, sees Erik watching him, and offers him a hesitant smile. “I suppose we didn’t introduce ourselves properly last night. Hello, I’m Charles Xavier.”

Erik takes his outstretched hand and shakes it firmly, ignoring the way his pulse seems to skyrocket at so simple a touch. “Nice to meet you, Charles. I’m Erik Lehnsherr.”


End file.
